Let’s start with the obvious: this is an apology. But it’s not for the headlines. Not for the memes. Not for the sensational headlines that turned me into a spectacle.
This isn’t damage control. It’s soul control.
When the world demanded an apology, it wasn’t asking for remorse. It was asking for surrender. But what happens when your silence is mistaken for defiance? When your shame becomes someone else’s punchline?
I stayed quiet because I didn’t know which voice to speak from. The criminal? The failure? The father who lost everything? The myth?
I’ve Been Sorry For a Long Time
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I was sorry long before the police were called. Long before the press got hold of the Wonka event. Long before people I’d helped turned their backs on me. The truth is, I carried guilt like a second skin.
I was sorry the day I saw kids walk into a cold warehouse expecting magic.
I was sorry the night I sat in a hostel, wondering if I’d just ruined not only my name but everyone else’s dreams.
I was sorry every time I pressed “send” on a message I shouldn’t have written, trying to stay in contact with someone I once loved but could no longer reach.
This Isn’t About Denial
People think you either apologise or defend yourself. Like it’s binary. But what if both are true?
What if I hurt someone and also wasn’t a monster?
What if I made unforgivable decisions while living inside a tornado?
I never meant to send sexual images. But I did. I never meant to become an internet villain. But I am. And I’ve learned that even if your intentions are complex, your actions leave real bruises.
I do not apologise for being misunderstood.
But I do apologise for the pain I caused.
Not just to individuals. But to the collective dream. To those who believed in me. To the children who expected laughter and got fear. To the artists who thought we were building something bigger. To the strangers who thought maybe, just maybe, I was worth following.
The Myth Wasn’t Built to Hold Me
I created a version of Billy Coull who was brilliant, wounded, rebellious, mythic. A healer, a visionary, a spiritual revolutionary.
But that man wasn’t strong enough to face real consequences.
He was a projection. And when the myth shattered, it left real people bleeding. Myself included.
So I let him die.
I’m not offering this apology from behind that mask.
I’m offering it as a man who is rebuilding from the ash pile of his own making.
I am sorry—for the damage, the distraction, the recklessness, the need to be seen. And I’m sorry it took this long to say it in a way that wasn’t filtered through fear.
But I am not sorry for trying to survive.